I learned that there's another writer inside me, like a forgotten final Russian nesting doll, resting in the deep dark for a few years.
This tiny forgotten voice in the dark still believed in a humanity that does not exist.
I kept unconsciously writing an ending of redemption with empathy, with remorse, coming from the rapist.
Then I did one of my last-minute double-check research binges, and realized the whole thing was based on a fallacy of mine.
I read interviews with pedophiles and rapists. I read psychological profiles and statistics. I read reports and articles. I couldn't find the one thing I was looking for: WHEN THEY HAVE REMORSE.
Because they never do.
They have regrets, they talk about how they "Wish things had been different," and how they've learned to love themselves and how they can't guarantee that they'll never offend again when they get out but they think it's society's duty to keep a "Better eye" on them.
They never mention remorse about their actions or the pain it caused. They never talk about their victims. They never express the hope that their victims will recover, they never hope to make it up to their victims. They only hope to pay their debt to "society" so they can get out of prison.
Elderly priests who raped dozens of children, teen offenders, scout masters, serial college rapists, every conceivable profile, they all say the same things. They all talk about themselves and never mention their victims unless asked to recount. And when they recount there is no remorse. Just reporting, just talking about how much they wanted it and liked it.
I thought I had a grip on this. I don't know now if I ever will. I thought I was such an expert on this issue, I've worked so hard in groups and journaling and with every kind of therapy including cognitive and trauma therapy and getting smudged by a shaman and doing my three day vision quest in the Utah desert without sleep and food, I worked with EFT therapists and even a faith healer. I thought I was DONE.
How can this still break my heart?